Horcrux: Sins of Our Fathers  Prelude
by darkkenchild
Summary: A collection of three preludes to Horcrux: Sins of Our Fathers. These stories serve to tell, in short vignettes, how this universe's history differs from what we know.    1- Establishes Change  2- Describes Effects of 1  3- Voldemort: Grindelwald's Legacy
1. Prelude 1: Green Skies

It was nearly over. I had spent months trudging across this godforsaken patch of rock and snow. There was nothing here that mattered except dark black stones, ugly brown mud and dirty grey snow. For some reason, the Germans claimed this terrible country early in the war and they refused to give up on it, despite having lost ground all across the continent. They fought on, knowing that it was all over, their stubbornness almost felt noble if it wasn't keeping me from finally going home.

This morning started out well. The boys came charging into my tent, one of them clutching a radio and another a bottle of champagne. They cheered, rejoiced at the news that Hitler was dead and the war was over. I could not hold back my own smile, but I ordered the boys back to their tents to suit up. The war wasn't over yet. It would be soon, and we would have to be ready to accept the surrender here before we could truly relax.

I took my own advice and straightened my officer's jacket, before stepping out into our encampment. The small city of tents circled a central clearing where we had rallied months before, when the fighting remained hot. Things had cooled, though, in the recent past. As the Allies swarmed over the Nazi's empire and toppled it wherever they went, the Germans across the way lost their drive. The last two weeks hadn't seen a single shot fired, having become little more then a pair of enemies staring angrily across an empty and bloodstained battlefield.

Now that their leader had been found dead, I expected a response from my German counterpart within the next few hours and I wanted to look the part of the conquering hero. I ordered a pair of young lieutenants, still giddy from the morning's news, to rally the soldiers and organize the camp for our guests. I did not order them to stifle their joy, as I knew that everyone here would be unable to contain the simple excitement of returning home victorious. I momentarily considered visiting the makeshift mess hall to check if there were any sweets I could enjoy, when the German's messenger arrived.

With a bright flash and the crash of thunder, the command tent behind me ceased to exist. My ears were ringing as I scrambled to my feet. I glanced around the camp in momentary confusion. Mortar shells fell on the troops like terrible meteors falling from heaven. I couldn't even hear my own voice as I barked orders to the troops to mobilize, but I saw them begin to scurry to their weapons and out onto the rocks and snow of the long abandoned battlefield. I shook my head before grabbing a rifle from a passing private, and marching after my troops with grim determination.

The Germans had no doubt heard that their leader had fallen. I still did not doubt that, but I had sorely misjudged their reaction. I expected their morale to break, and their surrender to follow swiftly. Instead, they seemed to have gone berserk. They wasted the last of their mortars to send us a message, their desperate battle-cry as they swarmed towards our camp, "We will not go gentle into that dark night." Again, I could almost respect their grim sacrifice, if they were not trying to kill me and my boys. I could not count them in the confusion, but I knew at least a half dozen men had died in that initial burst, and I was determined to not let another soul perish for the Germans' foolishness.

My soldiers, these noble young men who had only moments ago been rejoicing in seeing their families again, marched boldly into a storm of bullets and smoke. Men fell, on both sides, but I ignored them. I had but one goal. I was going to find the petty officer that had ordered this final German assault, and end him, and this war, once and for all. The sea of blood and bodies seemed to part before me, as I saw my target looming in the distance. We locked eyes, and we immediately knew how this would end. One man would walk away, and his soldiers would live, while the others would fall. I blinked deeply, preparing myself for a final charge, and I heard the universe crack open.

I opened my eyes to see a strange new world. The rocks were still there, as was the snow, but the chaos of battle had momentarily ceased. We now stood surrounded by chaos, but here, in the center, the world came to a stop. There was an unearthly calm that descended upon us, pregnant with potential. The world swirled madly outside the calm of our battlefield, but all we could see was the army of hell itself.

Surrounded by an unearthly green haze stood a dozen robed figures. They were in a clearly military formation, with their leader positioned at the point of the wedge, flanked by his soldiers. Stretched before them, forming a precise border separating the two halves of the now forgotten firefight, were a line of bodies. The young corpses stared out at the world in shock, many of them with no apparent wounds that could have detached their souls from this mortal coil. The robed leader boldly stepped forward and into the macabre chasm between us and the Germans, pulling off the hood of his cloak.

The young man who stood revealed seemed so powerful and striking. His gentle brown locks fell casually across a fair face, a face which was deathly calm. He showed no fear, no hesitation, for having interrupted an active battle. Instead he stared down his nose at all of us, covered in dirt and blood in the short combat, as if we were lower then the grime that coated our bodies. We were insects before this young man, and he did not care if we lived or died. He locked eyes with me for the briefest of moments, and I felt the power of a god, or a monster, stare directly into my soul. He turned and glanced towards the Germans for a moment as well, before drifting slowly up off the sullied ground of Earth. There he floated for a moment, and regarded the rabble beneath his divine feet and he began to speak. I heard his foreign tongue faintly, as if it were far away, but the words simultaneously formed into English, which seemed to come to my ears, as if the man stood right next to me.

"Hear me, mortals. You stand here, before me, upon the precipice of a new age. For too long, we wizards hid in the shadows of your mortal nations. While your pitiful leaders rose and fell, we watched from the darkness with fear. Your numbers made you seem powerful. Mere illusions! We hold the power. We are your gods! While you scrape in the dirt, trying to claim the birthrights of your betters, we hid, but no more! We have come to claim the birthright that you have stolen... We have come to rule this world, for we have grown weary of you. We hold the power! And we will hold the crown of leadership!" He paused for effect, before continuing. "I, Gellert Grindelwald, hereby declare this place as the seat of my new kingdom. My new nation, ruled by witches and wizards, shall restore the natural order to this world. You mortals have your place amongst this new mystic nation, as you are as much human as the rest of us, but your inferior nature places you under the noble rule of your betters." He now turned and addressed the soldiers directly. "You, fighting a petty war for your foolish mortal leaders, you have the honor of being the first to take your rightful place in this new world. Submit to me and my disciples, and you shall be honored as the first amongst mortals. Those who refuse, shall be executed, for the Greater Good!"

The man pulled a stick out of his robes with a dramatic flourish and pointed it at the nearest soldier, one of my young lieutenants from that morning, seeming like eons ago.

"Do you, mortal, submit to my dominion?"

The lieutenant, bless his soul, hesitated before sneering at the would-be god and spitting at the ground beneath his feet. He stared boldly into the eyes of the man, defying him in both action and in his booming voice. "I'd rather die, if you don't mind. I'm an Ameri-" His statement was cut short with a crack and a flash of green light. The poor young man dropped to the ground, his body now empty of that youthful spark. The remaining soldiers, on both sides, stared in shock. If there was any doubt of this man's power before, they had just been murdered alongside that young man, who's only crime was to stand up to this Lucifer.

"Do you, mortal, submit to my dominion?" The man had pointed his stick at another soldier, a German this time. The only response he got was the young soldier dropping to his knees and staring at the ground beneath his new god's feet, refusing to meet eyes with such power. "Good, child. You shall be remembered as the first to restore balance to this world." With those words, the other robed figures each pulled back their hoods as well. Revealing men and women, many with smug expressions equalling their master, who then spread across the field, demanding submission or offering death.

I stood there in shock, staring at the self-proclaimed god with rapidly growing hatred. I was about to go home, we were going to be heroes. The war was over, and now this overblown magician sought to inflict a terrible reign of terror across the world. It made me sick to my stomach to realize that he was not the only one with such power, as his own soldiers marched through my troops, and those of my enemy, dispatching impossible death upon any who dissented. I spared a glance at the German commander, half expecting to see him already submitting. Instead, we locked gazes and wordlessly learned of our shared rage at this usurper. In that brief, and silent, second an unspoken peace was reached and a plan formed.

With a loud bellow of unleashed rage and indignation we both cried out against the devil made flesh. We roared orders to those who were still loyal to their own humanity, to raise their weapons to this terrible man and cut him down before he could be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. American or German, Ally or Nazi, it didn't matter in that moment. We were human beings, mere "mortals" united against an alien threat that loomed over us all. Our allegiances and our homelands melted away, to be replaced with a desperate shout of defiance against the dark.

To my surprise, our rallying cry rose to a roar, as our soldiers joined us. Well over half of both sides rallied and raised their weapons against a common enemy. In a terrible symphony of gunfire, bullets rained down upon this so called deity. There was no way for him to dodge such a bombardment, and for a split second, my hopes rose. Only to be dashed upon the rocks of impossible reality.

The man continued to float effortlessly in the air, a bored expression painting his face. He held his stick calmly before him, and as if stuck in gelatin, the bullets that should have torn him to ribbons were stuck in the air around him. Not one slug had gotten within a foot of the man. With a casual wave of his hand, the bullets dissolved into a fine powder, which floated away on a gentle breeze.

"A noble, if foolish, attempt. I often forget how foolish Muggles can be in large groups." He sighed and brought his stick to bear against us, and his soldiers followed suit. A young woman, standing mere feet away, turned to face me. She pointed a jet black stick in my direction and we locked eyes for the barest moment. I saw two eyes, one bright green and the other deep brown, that silently apologized as his army said in unison, "Avada Kevadra."

The world once again cracked open and the universe ended in a flash of green.


	2. Prelude 2: Veil of Shadows

Excerpted from the memoirs of Robert Bailey...

I remember that morning fondly. It was a briskly cool spring morning, with a cool breeze wafting in over the Ocean a scant mile away. The green of spring rose defiantly against the dark and brooding stones that clung closely to the shore, as if trying to escape from the lush beauty of the fields that defied them. A small platform had been constructed on those fields, draped in the reds, blues and golds of the nation of Abenbaring. Scattered around the area were a small battalion of news vans, with their respective reporters and their camermen milling about in the small encampment that had been formed. They were all there for Human Interest stories, and they knew it. None expected there to be anything of real import here. Another War Memorial, used to boost the image of a nation feeling fragile. Granted, Abenbaring was a young nation, and founded on dark pretenses, but it was simply more pomp and circumstance. I noted that a small group of people near the edge of this wagon circle refused to join the circle. I could only guess that they were some of the family members that would be memorialized today.

I had worked for the Daily Prophet for barely more than a year by that point. Their first "Muggle" reporter ever. They all seemed decent enough folks, but they hadn't yet gotten the memo that us "Muggles" didn't appreciate a term that only stressed how inferior many of their wizards thought us. I argued for months before heading to Abenbaring with my editor, and I finally convinced her to acquiesce. This story would be the first to come from "Robert Bailey, Reporter" instead of "Robert Bailey, Muggle Correspondent." Thus, I was probably far more excited to stand there, with the cool wind to my back and my fingers poised for the speech to come, than many of my compatriots.

I checked my watch frequently in those final minutes. Ten minutes to go. Five minutes left. One more minute. A minute late. Then, after four minutes of slowly building grumbling from the assembled reporters, with a crack and flash, three figures appeared on the stage. I could not help but roll my eyes at the overly dramatic entrance, I quickly recalled my duty to note what stood before , an young man in a dark cloak was clearly there as a guard. His intimidating form stood stock still by the side of his mistress. He eyed the audience with a grimace, before crossing his arms and grunting in annoyance. It didn't take a psychologist to know that he did not feel any of this was necessary or worthwhile. To the left side of the stage, stood an older man in a neatly tailored suit looking distinctly queasy. I remembered him from my history books, one of the first mundanes to join the government of Abenbaring. In fact, he was a former Nazi soldier who had defected to join the Dark Wizard Grindelwald thirty-five years earlier. He had since risen to lead the nation's parliament as their current Prime Minister. From what some of the local reporters had said, this whole ceremony may have been his idea, though I've never since found any proof of this.

Finally, standing in the center of the platform, behind a small dais, was a middle-aged woman standing proudly. Guiden VanTassel wore a modest, maroon dress covered by an elegant deep purple cloak. She stood there calmly, viewing her audience with pair of eyes that were uniquely her own. One eye, a dark brown, seemed to burn like an old coal, remnants of a roaring fire long extinguished. The other, a bright and clean green, seemed to sparkle with wonders that only she could see, a bright future to come. Her party would have you believe that her eyes literally saw the horrors of the past and the wonders of the future simultaneously, granting her wisdom and passion both, but I doubt few took such talk seriously. She calmly cleared her throat and pulled out a finely carved, jet-black wand from within her cloak and pointed it calmly at her own throat. When she cleared her throat once again, it sounded as if she stood right next to me as she did of the more useful tricks I had seen amongst wizards, made it so much easier to hear what people said in these public speeches.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, members of the press and the families of the men who died here thirty-five years ago on this very spot. We are here to mark our rememberence of those past events, which helped shape the world we live in today. The very course of history was forever changed when a bold and foolish man declared himself a god on these fields, and many noble young men died that day. It is these heroes that we are here to honor. I..." She paused for a moment, and glanced out towards the sea, and I noted that her eyes flashed with uncertainty. I was already preparing a note that she had forgotten her speech, so I could respectfully spin it later, when she began to speak once more.

"These fields, gripped in a winter that refused to let go, bore witness to a terrible tragedy. Young men, unknowing, faced against forces they could never have imagined. A vicious man and his unwitting army, an army of scared and intimidated soldiers, no different then the courageous young men who defied their master. They lacked the strength to defy Grindelwald, with all their mystic strength, when a few dozen men with no power but what they carried in their hearts stood against him." She looked somber, and the shocked expressions on her companions made it quite clear that she had deviated from her prepared speech. These words were her own.

"These young men had a power that none of those wizards could muster, and many still do not. The world is in a period of unrest. The world that was born on these fields all those years ago is now facing growing pains. Far from here, in the heart of America, a legion of young men and women war amongst themselves, black and white robes clashing over the purity of their nation. In the heart of Africa, wizards who have never faced the discrimination of their mundane bretheren now rise to claim the mantle of leadership from the remnants of European colonists, only to find themselves attacked and tortured by white wizards who refuse to leave. Communists and Witches have united in Vietnam to turn the battlefields there red with blood. Across that very sea," she gestured to the ocean which seemed to roil in response. "A war rages between a fool who does not see the horrors wrought by Grindelwald, or the terror he causes in that man's name, and a terrified populace that suffers under his rebellion. In each place, the virtuous cringe away in fear, unwilling to stand against the terrible darkness that has descended upon this world. A veil of shadow descends upon us now, and we do not see it. If no one stands against these atrocities, then the terrible world that Grindelwald promised on these fields all those years ago will come to pass. If we allow this to happen, then we are no better then the men and women who killed in the name of terror in this place and we do a great disservice to the courage and strength of those men."

She stopped and took a deep breath, composing herself after having been lost in her passion for that brief moment. The audience stood in silence, enraptured by the moment of real passion that had bled through the pomp and circumstance. Some of us already knew, on that cool morning in April, that we had just bore witness to our generation's call to action. Soon, her words would be compared to Churchill's Iron Curtain, or Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. However, in that moment, we didn't think of any of that, instead we waited patiently for her to speak again, and bring us back from the heights she had driven us.

"Now, today, we unveil a monument to those men. Those men who shall inspire new heroes, to deal with this rising darkness." She reached behind her, and pulled down the sheet that had, until now, obscured the monument beneath it. It stood tall, nearly ten feet, and featured a young soldier, in ambiguous fatigues that bore no national insignia. The soldier stood tall and proud, a look of clear defiance marking his features. Beneath him, a plaque bearing a dedication. She took a deep breathe and finished her speech, "May this monument stand as a lightning rod for the heroes of the modern age."

With those words, the Guiden stepped down from the dais and took a deep breath. Her Prime Minister started to walk towards her, clearly wanting to speak with her about what she said, but with a crack and pop, she disappeared before he could utter a word. Silently, the large man grabbed ahold of the older man's arm and they too disappeared.

Hours passed, and slowly the reporters began to depart, as did the families. None seemed sure of what they had just heard, and many left with the expression of someone still processing what they had witnessed. I just stood there, staring at the monument. I barely noticed when the workers arrived to dismantle the stage. All I could think of was the chaos that I had left at home, the war that my own newspaper refused to talk about if it could avoid it, out of fear. I stood there, staring at the words etched on to the plaque, and I knew I couldn't write my simple Human Interest story, not anymore. I needed to defy that man, the man with no name, Voldemort. I would write about this day, no doubt, but I would also write about that terrible man and how he needed to be stopped. I would take these words to heart and I would tell others of what I had heard and seen. I would remember what that plaque read:

IN MEMORY OF THOSE SOLDIERS

WHO DIED HERE ON MAY 4, 1945

YOUR SACRIFICE BROUGHT

LIGHT TO THIS WORLD


	3. Prelude 3: Off to War

It was a cool and quiet morning. A slight breeze blew across the emerald hills, quietly heralding the coming dawn. Where the rising sun promised brilliant warmth to chase away the somber chill of autumn, the breeze seemed to warn that it would return once the sun grew too weak to continue. The breeze wound through the small hills and valleys, seeking a place to hide.

Nestled amongst those hills, a small column of smoke rising from its chimney, sat a small cottage. It looked slightly slouched and depressed, like it had long ago collapsed in a valley to rest and had not yet roused the strength to stand again. The breeze flew towards this exhausted hovel, hoping to bring a final chill to those who hid within.

A young man stood alone in the kitchen of the cottage, staring quietly out the window. He knew what this day would bring, deep in his bones he felt it. He stood resolute, defying the cold breeze that blew through sand-colored hair andbrought dread through the open window. His thoughts raged across his face, betraying an internal chaos that he fought to keep hidden beneath a stoic expression. The slightest twitch of an eye as he heard someone moving behind him, somewhere in the belly of the cottage. Almost a flinch, as if he feared whatever moved within, quickly forced from his face. He took a deep breath to compose himself and turned to face the kitchen doorway.

With a tumble and a crash, a young woman stumbled into the room. A quiet grin plastered across her face as she saw the man before her. She was wrapped in a heavy brown cloak and had a small bag thrown over her shoulder, clearly ready for a journey. She lightly pushed a stray lock of blonde hair out of her eyes and she let the bag drop to her feet with a dull thud. With a broad grin, she walked over to the man, who's expression still belied the roiling torment beneath the surface and her smile slowly turned somber.

"Oh, Thomas."

The woman grabbed the man in a tight embrace and refused to let go, despite his half-hearted attempts to escape. There they stood, until he finally broke and dropped his head onto her low shoulder. He began to shake slightly, barely holding back terrible sobs. She patted his back lightly, comforting and affectionate, her contact akin to rubbing a salve on a terrible ache.

"I promise you, nothing will happen." She pulled back from the embrace just enough to look Thomas in the eye, and she smiled sadly, wiping the single tear that had broken through his facade.

"I know. I know you really mean that, but I can't shake this terrible feeling." He looked again out the window, refusing to meet her gaze. "I just feel something on the wind."

"Because there is something out there. Something terrible. Someone terrible..." She trailed off with a depressed sigh, also looking out that same window.

"I know. Hell, Meg, everyone knows. That's why we're out here!" Growing ever more forceful, Thomas broke the embrace and stepped away. "We came here to hide from him! There's no reason we need to get involved! This is foolish!" He whipped around staring angrily at the woman, accusing her with his blazing eyes.

Silence hung heavily in the room, broken only by the quiet clink of pots being blown about in the early morning air.

"We cannot live in fear anymore, Thomas," Meg finally said quietly, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, but I cannot hide in the hills any longer, not while that monster tears across the countryside. Not while all those innocents are dying. Not when a monster strives to ruin everything! Damn you, Thomas! Damn you! We've been over this. I don't care what your dreams tell you! I am more than capable of defending myself and you and I both know that I can no longer sit on the sidelines!" She paused and took a deep breath and continued quietly. "I'm sorry, but I am going, with or without your permission."

Taking a deep breath, Thomas's rage dissipated. It's hot accusations fading into chilled morning air. Finally, with a breaking voice and a somber expression, he hung his head.

"Just promise me you'll come back. I can't bear the thought of that monster taking you away."

"I promise."

She once again wrapped him in a tight embrace, before stepping back quickly and grabbing up her bag from where it had fallen onto the floor. With a grin she checked her belt to be sure she had everything she needed and leaned forward and grabbed Thomas by his collar, kissing him passionately.

"I'll be home in a few weeks, with a dead tyrant on the ground behind me." She grinned broadly. "And I expect to find you waiting for me."

"I love you." Thomas said with a twinge of sadness.

"I love you too, sweetie."

With a final hug, Meg stepped through the kitchen doorway and into the cool morning. Thomas watched her walk down the path towards the nearest village. She turned back and waved confidently to him and he meekly waved back. As she crested the hill and sunk down behind it, Thomas began to weep openly. He knew, deep in his heart, that it would be the last time he would see his beloved wife. His dreams did not lie. Only he lied, when he said he believed her. He hoped against hope, but did not believe. He would only see her again long from now, when death came to claim him. He fell to the floor and wept as the cold rays of the sun slowly began to leak through the open window.


End file.
